History is being made right before us and all you can contribute is contempt? Since when have we all become so polarizing? There has never been a civilization not built on war.

I'm all for mind over matter,
but If all lives matter?
than please respect mine
Show admiration not shame
Because they aren't to blame
It's hard to remain sane and ignore
When every month it rains and it pours
They see looting and dysfunction
I see grouping and discussion
Anger is no way to communicate
But it's the best commute to irate
I'm all for mind over matter
But if all lives matter?
Than I don't care whose
Business you mind
Just as long as you
Don't mind mine.

Poetry as a mental illness.
Interesting proposition.

Poets do not see like others.
Poets do not feel like others.
Often, they do not live like others.
Ergo: Poets are not like others.

Assuming others are normal
(assuming that normal exists)
then poets are not normal.

Does that make poetry a mental illness?

I haven't a clue and the mad-hatter
is throwing a party for which
I cannot be late. Forget normal.
Come along. We shall take tea
and play croquet with
flamingoes and hedgehogs,
while speaking in puzzles and rhymes.

That feels normal enough to me.
   ~mce

Get more
Get more
Apps on your phone
they'll distract you from the fact
you're gonna die alone

She sat, back to the paint-drip
furnace and the little, drywall
mountain beneath the single-
pane sun. Though we were hunched
over a tablecloth of ink and Xerox
study guides, I knew we were there
with our legs swung over, dripping
parallel to the faults in the face
where it threatened to split itself
and leak sweet, Colombian dirt.
We could feel the push of fifty million
coffee grounds at our steamed-milk heels
and the edge crumbling off into teaspoons,
but we didn't move.

We watched the teal-crystal sky
boil over instead.

The past is a lie.
Don't let it bother you.
There are no facts,
only memories we create
and call the past.
Some memories are benign;
others are feral,
hidden in the landscape
waiting to attack.
You invented the past;
you can let it go.
Instead, take the shining path.
Live in the last, best
country of Now.
It is green and real.
It is radiant and full.
It loves you, body and heart.
It wants you to be happy
and if you are sad,
it is because of the past
that you invented,
that you still cling to,
that only you can destroy.
**** it. Walk away. Be free.
Now is the time that matters,
the only time
that belongs to you.
    ~mce

The doors
of the world
are surprisingly
open unless
you lock them
yourself.

   ~mce

She let go
of her name

watched it drift
away

a thing on the tide
separate to herself.

A thing now
to be

denied.

She undid
her self

watched it
now fall to the floor

kicked it
carelessly to one side


as if stepping out
of a dress

she had worn for far
too long.

She unclasped her love
of the world

put it aside
carefully and with

a little regret.

And then
she stepped into

her death
as if she were

stepping into
a bath.

“So, this is
it? ”
she laughed.

You’ll never see how much I loved you
I was going to dye my hair brown
I stayed up crying three nights in a row
trying to let go of my bubble gum hair
But the next day
You told me you didn’t love me like you did yesterday
So I dyed my hair blue